Part 69 (1/2)
I certainly did not believe in ghosts; but I recalled Madame Ernest's impatience when the children mentioned the subject, and I suspected that there was some mystery at the bottom of it all. I determined to solve it, for something told me that I was interested in it.
I went to bed, but I could not sleep. Tormented by my thoughts, I decided to rise again, and I was about to open my window when it seemed to me that I heard a noise at the end of the corridor, in my children's room. I opened my door very softly. At that instant a sort of white shadow came out of the other room. I confess that my heart fluttered slightly at first. I was on the point of rus.h.i.+ng toward that mysterious being; but I restrained myself and waited silently, without moving a hair, to see what was the meaning of it all.
After closing the door of the children's chamber, the shade stopped and picked up a lantern; then it walked slowly toward me. It was a woman; I could see that.--But I recognized her: it was Eugenie!
She walked very softly, apparently afraid of making a sound. Her white dress, and the long muslin veil that was thrown back from her head, gave her a sort of ethereal, unsubstantial aspect at a distance. I had no doubt that she was the spectre that had frightened the nurse and children.
Poor Eugenie! her face was almost as pale as her clothes. What a sad expression in her eyes! what prostration in her whole person!--She stopped; she was standing at the head of the stairs. She turned her face toward the room she had just left, then looked in my direction. I trembled lest she should see me; but no, I had no light and my room was very dark. She made up her mind at last to go downstairs; I ran to my window and saw the little lantern pa.s.s rapidly through the garden and disappear near the summer-house.
So it was Eugenie who occupied that building, which was always carefully closed; Ernest and Marguerite had given it to her so that she could readily go to the house to see her children. So she was there--very near me--had been there a long while perhaps, and I had no suspicion of it.
What was her object, her hope? Was it because of her children only that she had concealed herself there?--But Ernest and his wife knew perfectly well that I would not prevent her from seeing them.
I determined to learn the motive of Eugenie's conduct, and the plans of Marguerite and her husband. To that end, I must be careful not to let them suspect that I had seen the pretended spectre; and I must try to learn something more the next night.
The intervening time seemed terribly long to me. During the day, I involuntarily walked toward the summer-house several times; but everything was closed as usual. I noticed that the door, which was on the side of the building toward the forest, was very conveniently situated for anyone to go in and out of the garden unseen.
The night came at last. I kissed my children and they were taken to their room. When I supposed that they were asleep, I bade my hosts good-night and withdrew to my room, on the pretext that I had a violent headache; but I had no sooner entered the room than I stole forth again softly, without a light, and went to that occupied by my children. The key was in the door; I went in, and sat down by my daughter's bed to wait until somebody should come; both she and her brother were sleeping quietly.
At last, some time after everybody was in bed, I heard stealthy steps outside. I instantly left my chair and hid behind the long window curtains. I was hardly out of sight when the door was softly opened, and Eugenie entered the chamber, carrying her little lantern, which she carefully placed at the foot of her son's cradle.
She threw her veil back over her shoulders, and, stealing forward on tiptoe, leaned over Henriette's bed and kissed her without waking her; she did the same with Eugene, then sat down facing the children and gazed long at them as they lay sleeping.
I dared not move; I hardly breathed; but Eugenie was almost facing me; I could see her face and count her sighs. She put her handkerchief to her eyes, which were filled with tears, and I heard broken sentences come from her lips.
”Poor children! What an unhappy wretch I am! But I must deprive myself of your caresses--you will never call me mother again. And he--he will never more call me his Eugenie!--Oh! cruelly am I punished!”
Her sobs redoubled, and I had to summon all my courage to refrain from flying to her, wiping away her tears and pressing her to my heart as of old.
We remained in those respective positions for a long while. At last Eugenie rose and seemed to be on the point of taking leave of her children, when someone softly opened the door. Eugenie started back in alarm; but she was rea.s.sured when she recognized Marguerite. The latter carefully closed the door, then seated herself by Eugenie's side; and although they spoke in low tones, I did not lose a word of their conversation.
”My husband is working; I did not feel like sleeping, and I thought that I should find you here; so I came as quietly as possible. However, there's no light in Monsieur Blemont's room, and I fancy that he has long been asleep.--Well! still crying! You are making yourself worse--you are very foolish.”
”Oh! madame, tears and regrets are my lot henceforth. I cannot expect any other existence.”
”Who knows? you must not lose hope; if your husband could read the depths of your heart, I believe that he would forgive you.”
”No, madame, for he would always remember my sin; nothing would make my motives less blameworthy in his eyes. And yet, although I am very guilty, I am less so perhaps than he thinks. You have understood me, for women can understand one another. But a man! he sees only the crime, without looking to see what might have driven a woman to forget her duties. And yet, heaven is my witness that, if I had loved him less, I should never have become guilty. If he should hear me say that, he would smile with pity, with contempt; but you--you know that it is true.”
Eugenie laid her head on Marguerite's shoulder, and sobbed more bitterly than ever. For some minutes they said nothing. At last Eugenie continued:
”I know that my jealousy did not justify me in becoming guilty; but, my G.o.d! as if I knew what I was doing! I believed that I was forgotten, deceived, betrayed, by a husband whom I adored. I had but one desire--to repay a part of what he had made me suffer. 'Play the flirt,' I was told, 'and you will bring your husband back to your arms; men soon become cold to a woman whom no one seems to desire to possess.'--I believed that; or, rather, I believed that Henri had never loved me; and then I tried to cease loving him. You know, madame, how jealous I was of you. That ball at which you were--at which he danced with you--oh! that ball fairly drove me mad. Before that, my jealousy had banished peace from our household. Alas! it was never to return! I plunged into the whirlpool of society; not that I was happy there; but I tried to forget, and I was pleased to see that he was distressed by my conduct.
”Fatal blindness! I preferred his anger to his indifference! When I had once sinned, I cannot attempt to tell you what took place within me; I tried to deceive myself as to the enormity of my sin; I lived in a never-ending whirl of dissipation, afraid to reflect, doing my utmost to put Henri in the wrong, to convince myself that he had betrayed me a hundred times, and, for all that, realizing perfectly that I had destroyed my own peace of mind forever. When my husband learned the truth, I did not stoop to try to obtain forgiveness by tears. No, I preferred to try to deceive myself still.--Great heaven! what must he have thought of my heart on reading the two letters that I wrote him! A woman who detested him would not have written differently. But, as if I were not already guilty enough, I tried still to make him believe that I felt no repentance for what I had done. I continued to go into society.
'He will know it,' I said to myself; 'he will think that I am happy without him;' and that thought strengthened me to hold myself in check in the midst of the crowd and to affect a gayety which was so far from my heart. But I knew nothing of his duel and his illness. Those two things, which I learned at almost the same time, made it impossible for me to put any further constraint on myself; it seemed to me that a bandage fell from my eyes. The thought that I might have caused his death terrified me. From that moment the world became hateful to me! I realized the depth of my wrongdoing; when I knew you and heard what you said, I found that I had suspected Henri unjustly, that he really loved me when I believed that he was unfaithful to me. He loved me, and it was by my own fault that I lost his love! Oh! madame, that thought is killing me--and you expect me to cease weeping!”
”But why shouldn't you consent to let us mention you to him, to let us try to move him?”
”Oh, no! that is impossible; somebody else has tried it already, and to no purpose, as I have told you. That young woman, Mademoiselle Caroline Derbin, whom he met, I believe, at Mont-d'Or,--that young woman, who thought that he was a bachelor at first, learned, I don't know how, that he was my husband; then, believing that it was he who had abandoned me, she begged him, implored him, to return to me. I was near them, without their knowing it, in the courtyard of the inn; I overheard all their conversation. He was kind enough also to allow himself to be blamed for wrongs of which he was not guilty; he did not try to disabuse her with regard to me. But, when she begged him to return to me, I heard him say: 'We are parted forever!'--Ah! those cruel words echoed in the depths of my heart, and I cannot understand why they did not kill me, although I had lost all hope of obtaining forgiveness.”
”There is nothing to prove that his answer to Mademoiselle Derbin represents his opinion to-day. I told you how he had changed to his son, poor little Eugene, whom he would hardly look at when he first came here; now he seems as fond of him as of his daughter.”